Hold Zero! (2 page)

Craig found it and let Steve pass. He waited for Johnny. Johnny wove with loose movements among the leathery alders and the grasping Phragmites reeds. Craig’s admiration for him welled up. “Can’tcha get us out of this?” Craig pleaded as Johnny drew up. “You always get us out of messes.” Mosquitoes whined as the boys knocked against the bushes, and Craig swung at them.

“There are times when you put your back to the music in order to face it,” Johnny said. “There’s no way out.”

“Yeah,” Craig took a deep breath, “but cops—gee, they spell trouble.” He hiked his trousers to steady his nerves. Through the copper stems of the river birches he saw the gray softness of the marsh.

“Are we going to tell them about Batta?” he asked. Johnny and Steve slowed down, and the three boys looked at each other in distress. Steve’s dark eyebrows puckered, then lifted. “No,” he said firmly. “That’s our secret. It’s got nothing to do with the rocket.”

“Right,” echoed Johnny. “Let’s shake.” He shoved one hand into Craig’s, the other into Steve’s, and Craig felt better.

“What about the door from the launching pit to Batta?” Steve called as they hurried on. “If we have to show the cop the rocket and the launch pit, he’ll surely ask about the door.”

“We’d better cover it with mud bags,” Johnny suggested.

“Good idea,” Steve agreed. “But we’ll have to move the command station. We’ll have to move the ignition control panel and the intercom system from Batta.”

“Put them in the fire control bunker,” suggested Craig. “We’ll make that the command center.”

“Good,” said Steve.

“Suppose the cop wants to see the rocket this afternoon?” Craig asked.

“Well, we’ll have to stall him—till we change things,” Johnny said. “There’s always something we can say we have to do—scouts, orchestra, Little League, dancing, geezey, we’ve got enough to do without faking a single excuse.”

They were almost to the road. Craig wasn’t ready to see the policeman, and began to slow the pace. Finally he stopped.

“Whatya lookin’ at?” Johnny asked.

“The muskrat den,” Craig said. “The entrance’s closed with leaves. Do you suppose they’re all right?”

“Oh, frogs eggs, Craig!” Steve said irritably when he saw the brown shapeless dome in the reeds. “Here you are worrying about a muskrat den when you should be planning the new layout of gear in the fire control station.” His voice was sharp, but Craig noticed he stood a long time staring at the den and the sticks and leaves jutting from the waterline door.

They moved on, crossed Rushing Road, climbed Hobbs Drive, and turned down the lane that led to Craig’s house. They stopped. A white police car, red light flashing ominously, sat in front of the brown shingle house.

“Well,” Johnny said finally, “here goes nothin’.”

As Craig plunged forward, he noticed his legs were stiff at the knees. But he climbed the steps resolutely and slowly pulled back the screen door.

C
RAIG WATCHED HIS MOTHER
introduce Steve and Johnny to Police Officer Ricardo. Then she gave his name—rather stiffly, he thought—and he realized she was nervous. He tried to sense what she was thinking, but the officer absorbed his interest. He had a broad thick chest, black hair graying at the edges, and heavy brows that shadowed his eyes. As he got up to meet them Craig wondered whether the man’s head was going to bump the red ceiling his mother so prized. He had never seen so tall a man.

“Now!” The officer’s voice was a boom on the bass drum. “What’s all this about a rocket?”

The boys found chairs and sat down. Craig glanced at Steve who licked his lips but did not answer.

“What’ve ya made?” the officer asked. His smile seemed condescending. “One of those CO
₂
cartridges with match heads stuck in it?”

“No, sir.” Steve was annoyed. “It’s a three-stage booster.” The officer laughed boyishly and Craig shifted his feet.

“Of course, you know there’s a law against putting off rockets,” the officer said.

“It’s still pending. Hasn’t been passed yet,” Craig whispered.

“But there
is
a law against incendiaries.” Johnny spoke up from the straight-backed chair in the comer.

The officer cleared his throat. “You seem to know the rules. Don’t you know you’re supposed to get permission to set off a rocket?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve said.

“Why didn’t you?”

“We didn’t think anyone would know any more about them than we do, and so we didn’t bother,” Steve replied.

Craig glanced down at his shoes and then up to see how the officer was taking Steve’s answer. Craig almost smiled when he saw the man’s face—his eyebrows were trembling, and he seemed to be trying to decide whether to be shocked or angry.

“What makes you think the police staff hasn’t had this kind of problem before?” the officer finally asked. “I took the Rogers boy to the police firing range to put off one he’d made. Now, we could’ve done this for you.” His voice was firm. “Why didn’t you call? You know the rules.”

“This isn’t exactly a rocket you can put off on a firing range,” Steve answered. “It’s a three-stage booster with a remote control launching panel. Rules set up by the rocket clubs say you have to launch it electrically from behind a foot-thick barricade. I don’t think we could do that at a rifle range.”

“I see,” said the officer, but his tone did not sound as if he saw at all. He laughed. “You boys today are great ... launching panel. When I was a boy we had firecrackers. Put ’em under tin cans and sent them sky high.” He twisted his head at pleasant but dangerous memories. “It’s a wonder we weren’t all killed. We didn’t call them launching panels in our day. Didn’t know the words. We just called them bombs.”

Johnny said that must have been keen fun, and the conversation died.

Craig’s mother came to the rescue. “It may be all right,” she said brightly. “After all, they’ve made radios with little parts and pieces.”

“Condensers and resistors,” Steve explained.

Officer Ricardo slapped his knees together in pleasure, and Craig had the awful feeling that he was not taking them very seriously.

“Maybe you ought to come see what we’ve done,” Craig suggested, somewhat surprised at his own calmness.

“Yes,” his mother said. “Perhaps it’s not as dangerous as we think. It may be quite good.”

Another condescending pause.

“After all,” she began again, “Mr. Diamond gave that radio kit to Craig—wires all hanging out—because
he
couldn’t make it. Said he had bought it as a project so that he and his son might get to know each other better.” She laughed. “He said the directions were absolutely unintelligible and that the whole thing had ended up in his being frustrated and angry at his son.”

“You boys got it together?” asked the officer.

“Oh sure,” answered Steve. “Craig and I talk on it all the time. Phil and Johnny are too far away for the FCC regulations. You see, we can only use a fifty-foot aerial or we’ll interfere with other bands.”

“I see,” said Officer Ricardo.

“What I don’t understand,” Craig’s mother broke in, “is why this whole rocket business started anyway. This town has everything to make a child happy. There are dancing classes, orchestras to play in, bands, soccer, football, Little League, Boy Scouts, choirs, drama groups, ski trips, ice skating ... seems sort of silly to go off by yourselves and make rockets and radios when there is so much offered.” She sighed.

“Frankly, Mrs. Sutton,” Officer Ricardo said rather gently, “I don’t know what the stir’s about. So, some boys made a rocket. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll have a look at it and get the chief to okay the whole thing. I’m sure he will.” He rose. “Where is it, Steve?”

“On an island in the marsh.”

“That sounds safe.” The officer crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe we can let you boys go ahead with it.” He turned to Johnny, who had bounced to his feet happily.

“How high does it go? Thirty or forty feet?”

“Two thousand,” Johnny answered.

“Two thousand?” Craig saw the officer’s eyebrows lower ominously.

“Oh, now, Johnny,” Mrs. Sutton said, “that’s like a real rocket.”

“It
is
a real rocket,” Johnny replied.

The officer stepped toward the vestibule. “When can I see this? I’m busy this afternoon, but tomorrow morning I’m on duty in this area. Could we meet at eleven?”

“That would be fine,” Steve said and glanced with relief at Craig. But Craig was looking at the officer’s feet. They splayed out, he noticed.

Then the telephone rang. His mother stepped into the kitchen to answer it. She said a few “yeses,” an “oh,” and signaled the policeman to wait. She hung up and came into the vestibule. The falling water of the fountain sounded loud and steady.

“That was Mr. Brundage,” she said. “Phil’s father. He’s terribly upset. His son told him that the rocket had twenty-four engines and was thirty-two inches tall—without the top on.”

“The nose cone,” Steve corrected.

“Yes, that’s it.” She went on, “Mr. Brundage said he thought a committee ought to be formed to check the rocket and see what’s going on. He suggested you and himself, and Johnny’s father, the town supervisor ... and a scientist.”

“Can they come tomorrow?” the officer asked.

“Oh, I doubt it. It’s Sunday. Mr. Brundage will be tied up at the church and the others will be busy I’m sure. It’ll have to be organized.”

“Yes, organized,” the officer repeated and Craig was reminded of the crows again. “Well, I’ll go ahead. Perhaps a committee won’t be necessary.” The big man spun on his heel, then dropped a large hand on Mrs. Sutton’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, “everything’s going to be all right.”

“It’s just that Mr. Brundage is so upset that this got ‘out of hand,’ ” she said hopelessly. “He can’t understand how a rocket got built without adult supervision.”

Craig was eager to correct his mother. “Oh, lots of adults helped,” he said. “Mr. Brian, the science teacher, checked out the launch panel at school, and Mr. Pappo, that free-lance inventor, gave us lots of condensers and old tubes. Even Mr. Brundage helped Phil carve the first-stage nose cones out of balsa wood.”

“You mean it
was
supervised?” Officer Ricardo said brightly.

“Well, not exactly.” Johnny took up the explanation. “Everybody kind of helped us in their free time. But the funny thing was,” he turned his head slightly, “nobody asked us what it was for. And we just sort of never told them. They were all so busy with their own work.”

Craig watched Officer Ricardo’s face as he scratched his head and put on his cap. He opened the door and hesitantly turned back to say something. But he was interrupted as Craig’s brother Pete called loudly from the basement and his sister Ellen burst in the back door with a friend, crying, “Hey? who’s being arrested?”

Officer Ricardo threw open the door. “See you all at eleven sharp. I’m getting curious about this Cape Kennedy of Blue Springs.” But his laugh seemed forced.

Craig’s watch read 1
P.M.
He shook it, then stared at the small hand that had inexorably arrived at the numeral that not long ago was to be the most exciting number in his life—one.

“It’s T-time,” he said to Johnny and Steve, “and all systems are red.” Johnny’s eyes dampened as he turned away.

C
RAIG’S MOTHER CAME
into his room after an early supper to tell him it was time to leave for the Community Night. He was lying on his bed, his math book spread open before him. He did not look up. “Zero, one, two, three, four,” he said, “ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Twenty, twenty-one ... ”

“What kind of counting is that?” she asked.

“New math. Base five.” Craig lowered his head. “Guess I shouldn’t go to Community Night.”

“It does sound as if it needs some work,” she said. “Well, don’t stay up late.”

Craig stared at black numbers until the door closed softly and the sounds of his family’s footsteps faded on the front steps. He repeated the numbers as he listened to the murmur of his transceiver, its switch opened to Steve’s house. The disappointment of the afternoon was at last layered over with thoughts of the work ahead at Batta. He rolled on his back and bicycled in the air.

A loud sputter from his radio landed him on his feet on the floor. He turned up the volume.

“Steve to Craig! Steve to Craig!” the radio sputtered. “Do you read me? Over.”

Craig flicked his button to “broadcast” and picked up a square gray microphone. “Craig to Steve. I read you go. Over.”

The radio crackled. Steve’s voice came in again. “Mom’s gone. Are you ready? Let’s meet at the swamp buggy in fifteen minutes. I’ll stop by for Johnny. Better get some paint for the rocket. If it looks good I think Officer Ricardo will let us put it off. Don’t you? Over.”

“I dunno. Mr. Brundage still has to check it, and he’s pretty strong-minded when he gets going. Over.”

“Yeah. Well, we’ve gotta try. See ya. Out.”

“Roger and out.” Craig turned off the radio.

Fifteen minutes had brought the sun to the rim of the northern ridge of the great marsh. Craig crossed Rushing Road and disappeared into a tangle of willows. He found the path that led to the wharf the four boys had built, its pilings hammered into the mud, its flooring nailed carefully to a square frame. Craig jumped on the wharf that stood in a gray-green screen of Phragmites grass. Beyond, according to the depth of the water, grew hard-stem bulrushes and water lilies. Then the slow stream stretched out into a meandering lake that formed the basis of the marsh. It was a half-mile wide and three-quarters of a mile long.

Craig waited for John and Steve. He listened for the cracking of the bushes that would tell of their coming but heard only the arguments of the red-winged blackbirds settling on reeds and branches for the night. He snapped on his flashlight and lifted the plastic cover that protected the swamp buggy from the rain. He checked the gasoline in the old lawn mower engine that Mr. Olsen had given him and examined the paddle wheel that moved the craft. He remembered gathering the shingles for paddle blades when the Rovers renovated their house several years ago. But he was particularly proud of the iron hoops that held the blades. They had been taken from lobster barrels at the end of a neighborhood party. He stepped on the buggy and looked over the edge to see whether the oil drums that held the flat floor above the water were leaking. They seemed fine.